My name is Aisha Suleiman. I am 36 years old. I am from Kaduna State. I was married for 9 years. I have two children.
This is my divorce diary.
I met Bashir when I was 24 years old, during my NYSC in Zaria.
At that time, I believed I was a strong woman.
Educated.
Independent.
Different from the “typical” girl who just wanted to marry and depend on a man.
I used to say:
“Ni ba irin matar da za a danne bane.”
(I am not the kind of woman that can be oppressed.)
Life has a way of humbling you.
Bashir was a lecturer.
Calm.
Intelligent.
Very religious.
He spoke with confidence, and when he quoted the Qur’an, you would think you were listening to a scholar.
That was what attracted me.
Not his looks.
Not his money.
His mind.
During our courtship, he made one thing very clear:
“Aisha, ina son mace mai biyayya. Addini shi ne gaba.”
(Aisha, I want an obedient woman. Religion comes first.)
I smiled and said:
“Ni ma haka nake so.”
(That’s what I want too.)
But we were not talking about the same thing.
We got married after one year.
The first few months were peaceful.
Very peaceful.
He would wake me up for Tahajjud.
We would pray together.
He would teach me Qur’an.
I felt lucky.
I told my friends:
“Na samu miji na gari.”
(I found a good husband.)
But slowly… things started changing.
Not suddenly.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
Dangerously.
It started with small corrections.
“Aisha, your hijab is too short.”
“Aisha, don’t laugh too much outside.”
“Aisha, reduce how you talk to men.”
At first, I agreed.
After all, what is wrong with improving oneself?
Then it became control.
One day, I was dressing up to attend a friend’s wedding.
He looked at me and said:
“Ba za ki fita da wannan kayan ba.”
(You are not going out wearing that.)
I said, “But it’s decent.”
He said:
“Ni na fi sanin abin da ya dace da matata.”
(I know what is appropriate for my wife.)
I changed.
Not because I agreed.
But because I wanted peace.
That became my life.
Changing.
Adjusting.
Reducing myself.
After our first child, things got worse.
Bashir started monitoring everything.
My phone.
My movements.
Even my tone.
If I laughed on a call, he would ask:
“Waye kike magana da shi?”
(Who are you talking to?)
If I delayed in replying his message:
“Kina raina ni ne?”
(Are you disrespecting me?)
At first, I explained.
Then I defended.
Then…
I kept quiet.
Silence became my protection.
But silence has a cost.
One evening, I made a mistake.
A small mistake.
I visited my cousin without informing him.
My phone battery died.
I came back home around Maghrib.
He was waiting.
The moment I entered, I knew something was wrong.
The way he was sitting.
The way he was looking at me.
He said quietly:
“Daga ina kike?”
(Where are you coming from?)
I explained everything.
Calmly.
Respectfully.
He stood up.
Came close.
And slapped me.
The sound echoed in my ears.
I froze.
That was the first time.
He said:
“Ki sani, ni ba wawa bane.”
(Know this, I am not a fool.)
That night, I didn’t cry.
I was in shock.
The next morning, he acted normal.
As if nothing happened.
I told myself:
“It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
I was wrong.
The second time came faster.
Then the third.
Then it became normal.
He never beat me in public.
Never.
Outside, he was the perfect man.
Religious.
Calm.
Respected.
Inside the house…
He was different.
If food delayed—slap.
If I questioned him—insult.
If I cried—he would say:
“Ki daina wannan shashancin.”
(Stop this nonsense.)
I started losing myself.
I stopped calling my friends.
I stopped visiting family.
I stopped looking at myself in the mirror.
Who was I becoming?
The breaking point came when I was pregnant with my second child.
I was weak.
Tired.
Emotional.
One night, I told him:
“Bashir, I need help. I am not feeling fine.”
He said:
“Mata sun dade suna haihuwa, ba ke ce ta farko ba.”
(Women have been giving birth for ages, you are not the first.)
That night, I fainted.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital.
My neighbour had taken me there.
Not my husband.
That was when something inside me changed.
Not anger.
Not hatred.
Clarity.
I realized something:
This is not religion.
This is control.
This is abuse.
When I told my family, the response broke me.
“Ki yi hakuri.” (Be patient.)
“Maza haka suke.” (Men are like that.)
“Don Allah ki rike gidanki.” (Please keep your marriage.)
Even my mother said:
“Mun fi ki jurewa.”
(We endured more than you.)
I felt alone.
Completely alone.
So I went back.
Not because I wanted to.
But because I had nowhere to stand.
The final incident happened two years later.
It was a small argument.
Very small.
He accused me of disrespect.
I tried to explain.
He pushed me.
Hard.
I fell.
My son saw everything.
He ran to me and said:
“Mama, don’t cry…”
That was it.
Not the pain.
Not the insult.
My son.
Watching.
Learning.
That day, I made my decision.
I packed my things.
Took my children.
And left.
When he came looking for me, I said:
“Bashir… na gaji.”
(Bashir… I am tired.)
He laughed.
He thought I would come back.
Like before.
I didn’t.
The divorce came later.
No drama.
No begging.
Just… an end.
Today, I am 36.
Divorced.
Living in Kaduna.
Raising my children.
Rebuilding my life.
And I finally understand something:
Hakuri ba yana nufin ka mutu a ciki ba.
(Patience does not mean you should die inside it.)
